


One Whole Star

by amazonziti



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2005-09-24
Updated: 2006-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazonziti/pseuds/amazonziti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Dursleys are killed in an unforeseen car accident, a six year old Harry is shipped off to the only remaining family willing to take him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts in the summer of 1996 – i.e., the summer before Buffy and Giles arrive in Sunnydale. Harry's about to turn seven; Willow, Xander and Jesse are fifteen and have just finished ninth grade. (God, they're young! I never really thought about it, but Buffy started Slaying when she was fourteen! Whoo.) The BtVS timeline is correct, but the HP timeline warranted tweaking – Harry will begin Hogwarts in September of 2000. Good? Good.

Harry decided he hated airplanes.

He hated the dull, heavy noise the lock on the inside of the door made when they closed it; he hated the warning at the beginning of the flight, during which they talked about the possibility of the plane crashing, and air masks, and where the exits were; he hated the freezing, recycled air; he hated the seatbelt that the stewardess had pulled too tight; and he hated being able to see through the floor.

Having chanced a few looks around himself, Harry was fairly sure that the other people on the plane couldn't see through the floor like he could, or else they'd be panicking, like he almost was. He'd gotten colder, even though he was wearing one of Dudley's old sweaters and the stewardess had fetched him an extra blanket. Harry had pulled his feet up onto the seat, but underneath Dudley's old backpack, underneath the worn brown carpeting, Harry could see people's suitcases. Far to the front of the plane were cages with dogs too big to ride with their owners. And beneath the luggage and the pets was open sky, and beneath the sky was the sea, and Harry had to remind himself to be thankful that he could only see so far.

The stewardess who was taking care of him, Ashlee, stopped by his seat. "Poor love," she said. "You look a fright."

Harry bit his lip. "I don't like being up so high," he confessed.

"Best stop looking to the windows, then, hadn't you?" said Ashlee good-naturedly. She ruffled his hair. Harry concentrated on not moving: he didn't like it when people touched him, but grown-ups always looked at him funny when he tried to get away. "Here," Ashlee added, "I'll get you some juice. What kind of juice would you like?"

At home, Harry wasn't allowed to have juice. Dudley could have juice, or chocolate milk, or soda, but Harry could only have water.

But Harry didn't have home any longer. He shrugged, grateful to find one thing to like about airplanes. "Apple juice, please," he said.

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Harry wasn't able to do anything the whole flight except stare straight ahead, drink juice, and try not to look at the water far, far below. He was afraid to sleep – if the sea came rushing up to meet him, he wanted to know about it – and the magazines in the seat-pocket were for grown-ups, big and boring and full of words he didn't know yet. He'd asked Ashlee for a book, and when she asked him what book, he'd said _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ , because even though it was a little-kid book, it was one of his favorites. Ashlee asked the other stewardesses, but she was only able to bring a thick grown-up book with a picture of a fainting lady on the cover.

"Thank you," Harry said, "but I think this book is a little too grown-up for me."

Ashlee beamed and ruffled his hair again. "Aren't you just the cutest little thing!"

Harry sat still and let Ashlee take the book back, tuck the blanket up under his chin, and promise to come check on him in a little bit.

More people had touched, and talked to, and fussed over Harry in the past three weeks than in all the rest of Harry's six-and-a-half years put together. At home, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't want to touch him, because he was a dirty waste of space and a nasty, ungrateful little brat. They didn't want to talk to him because he had a smart mouth and freakish ideas. And they didn't fuss over him because he was an unwanted ugly orphan whom they loathed.

Harry knew that Aunt Petunia would hate all this fuss. She'd shove Harry behind her and push Dudley forward so everybody could see what a beautiful clever baby boy she had. But then, Aunt Petunia wasn't around anymore. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were dead. Harry kept forgetting and thinking of home, but home was gone. Harry had seen it: all the furniture sold, all the pictures and vases and little sculptures of milkmaids packed away, all of Dudley's bright shiny toys in boxes to go to Aunt Marge's. And Harry's things. Dudley's old clothes, Harry's toothbrush and comb, his tattered books from the library's giveaway box: these were all packed in a worn gym bag, left over from the time Aunt Petunia had tried to take Dudley to baby yoga. In Dudley's old backpack Harry had a book of crossword puzzles, useless because Dudley had scribbled on and torn most of the pages, and a bottle of water for the plane ride.

They were sending Harry to America.

He had no family in England. Aunt Marge was Dudley's godmother, but she had refused point-blank to take Harry as well, and Social Services hadn't been able to change her mind. The closest relative Social Services had been able to find was Petunia's aunt's daughter, Sheila, who lived in California.

Harry had stayed in an orphanage for a couple of weeks while Sheila and Social Services negotiated. Really the orphanage hadn't been nearly as bad as the ones Uncle Vernon had liked to threaten Harry with. He'd gotten a bed of his own, and meals three times a day, and fewer chores than at home.

Considering how long it had taken for Social Services to get Sheila to take Harry, Harry felt that he could safely assume that she wanted him about as much as Aunt Petunia had. Would American cupboards be any different than English ones?

If only they'd just let him stay at the orphanage.

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When the plane landed a thousand years later, Harry had to wait until everybody else disembarked before Ashlee took him anywhere. Finally, though, Ashlee came to Harry's seat, unbuckled him, got his duffle bag down from the overhead bin, and announced them ready to go.

"Do you want to hold my hand, love?" she asked. "It's okay to be a little scared."

Harry had only held Aunt Petunia's hand when they were crossing the street and other mothers were watching. She'd hold his fingers painfully tight and let go of him as quickly as she could. Usually she'd wipe her hand on her skirt after.

"No, I'm all right," Harry said, and picked up his backpack.

Ashlee led him down the aisle of the empty plane and to the door, where there was a stairway to the tarmac. The pilots and the other stewardesses all wished him good luck. Harry figured he'd probably need it.

"Watch your step, now," Ashlee said as they walked down the stairs. In England it had been cool and wet. Here it was blazingly hot. Harry squinted in the sunlight.

Ashlee held out her hand again at the bottom of the stairs, and this time Harry took it. Her hand was soft. "Here, are you nervous?" Ashlee asked.

"A little," Harry allowed.

Ashlee seemed to expect more than this, but Harry couldn't imagine what that could be. At home, Uncle Vernon told Harry not to talk so much, because nobody cared what he thought. "I'm sure your cousin will just love you," said Ashlee encouragingly, holding the door to the gate open. Harry shrugged.

The waiting area by the gate was nearly empty, but as soon as Harry and Ashlee neared the desk, a young woman came toward them. "Hi," she said. Her smile was gentle. "You must be Harry." Harry nodded. "I'm Willow, your cousin Sheila's daughter. One of her business meetings had a last-minute change of schedule, so it's just me here to pick you up."

"I'm going to need to see some I.D.," Ashlee said sternly.

Harry sat nearby with his gym bag under his arm while Willow produced her state I.D. and her passport, while Ashlee fussed over a sheaf of paperwork, while Willow signed her name in a dozen places. The airport was just as cold as the plane had been, but when Harry looked down past his feet, all he saw was grubby carpet. What a relief to be out of the air! No sky and sea beneath his seat, just the ground.

Harry's gym bag was soft, and the seat was more than big enough for an undersized six-and-three-quarters year old to curl up in. Tucking his feet up like he'd done on the plane, Harry shuffled around until he could pillow his head on his bag. The grown-ups were taking a long time, and hopefully Willow wouldn't mind much if Harry took a nap when she didn't need him for anything. Harry yawned widely, the sleepless flight catching up to him all at once. Just a short nap, really.

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Harry woke up slowly. He was lying on something soft and he had room to stretch his arms and legs when he yawned. The pillow beneath his head was a real one, not his gym bag, and there was a blanket tucked up under his chin to keep him warm. Harry hadn't slept somewhere this nice since the time he'd gotten sick at school and had taken a nap in the nurse's office.

There was a rustling nearby, and someone sighed. Harry opened his eyes.

He was in an unfamiliar sitting room. It was nicer than at home: there weren't any doilies or little china shepherdesses, and the furniture wasn't pastel (Aunt Petunia had rather favored pastel colors), and the light coming from the laps was soft rather than too bright. The rustling came again, and Harry looked up. The pretty woman from the airport, Willow, was sitting in an armchair across the room. She had a blanket spread across her legs, and she was reading a book – a novel, the kind Harry couldn't read yet. Every once in a while she pushed her glasses up her nose.

Harry coughed a little and Willow turned his way. She smiled at him, the same gentle smile she'd given him at the airport. "It's about time, sleepyhead," she said, but she didn't sound impatient. "How are you feeling?" She marked her place in her book, put her glasses on the coffee table, and came over to kneel by Harry.

Harry wasn't entirely sure he understood the inquiry about his health, but he wasn't going to ask; Uncle Vernon always told him to stop asking stupid questions. "I'm fine," he said, which was true.

"I'm glad," Willow said. "Your stewardess said you didn't sleep on the plane at all. You must have been exhausted." She cocked her head at him, examining his face with big bright eyes. "Are you hungry? It's about dinnertime." Harry nodded at the same time his stomach gurgled. He winced with embarrassment, but Willow just laughed and said, "I agree completely. Come keep me company while I make dinner?"

Willow led Harry into the kitchen, which was bigger and newer than the kitchen at home. There was a round table in the middle, with four chairs; Willow ushered him onto the one with a booster seat. At home, Dudley had had a booster seat. He was too big for it, though: his fat sagged off either side. Harry hadn't had a booster seat, but then, Harry hadn't been allowed to eat at the table.

"What do you like?" Willow asked, peering into the refrigerator. "If we're lucky, I'll have it. We'll go to the supermarket tomorrow and you can pick some things out yourself."

"I like spaghetti," Harry said hesitantly. Aunt Petunia usually made too much of it – enough that she wasn't stingy with the leftovers.

"Hm," Willow said. "No plain pasta in the house right at the moment, but I do have some ravioli. How's that sound?" Harry didn't know what ravioli was, but he nodded mutely.

After tying her long auburn hair back, Willow puttered around the kitchen, setting a pot of water on the stove and philosophizing aloud on the merits of different kinds of marinara sauce. (Harry didn't know what marinara was, either.) The cry of "Oh, I forgot! Vegetables!" was followed by the unearthing of a head of broccoli from the crisper.

Harry wasn't used to being in a kitchen and being idle at the same time. At home, Aunt Petunia made him help with the cooking. Dudley liked to try to push Harry over while he was at the stove. When it worked, and Harry burned himself, Aunt Petunia would scold him for being clumsy.

But… Harry wasn't at home, and there wasn't a Dudley here to try to knock his feet out from under him. "Willow?" Those bright eyes, focused, on Harry again made him nervous. "Can I help?"

"Aren't you a sweetheart!" Willow said, laughing. "No, it's all right, you've had a long day. Maybe some other night I'll ask you to help me with the dishes, though." That was fine. Harry was good at dishes. "Are you thirsty? I should have asked earlier. I'm just going to have water, but I've got milk and juice and seltzer if you'd like some."

Harry had had so much juice on the plane that he worried he was using up his juice quota for the whole year in a single day. But _milk_ … Aunt Petunia had mixed chocolate syrup in with the milk for Dudley, but slapped Harry's hand away if he tried to have any himself. "Milk, please," Harry said, feeling daring.

"Good, good," said Willow, with approval. "Milk is good for your bones. Calcium."

The milk was presented in a red plastic child's cup, the kind Aunt Petunia bought for Dudley. Harry took a sip. Oh, it was good! Deliciously cold, and thicker and sweeter than water. Absolutely unable to put his cup down, Harry took gulp after gulp, hardly pausing for breath until the milk was half-gone. Inhaling deeply, Harry looked up – directly into Willow's amused eyes. "Careful," Willow said. She sounded… different. Something in her tone had changed. "You don't want to make yourself sick."

Harry was good at listening to the way people spoke and knowing when to duck or dodge or just plain scamper. But Willow wasn't getting angry, or even impatient. It was something else. It reminded Harry, a little, of Aunt Petunia when she spoke to Dudley.

Something in Harry's chest felt tight. "Um," he said, averting his eyes, "may I use the toilet?"

"Out of the kitchen that-a-way," Willow told him, "and down the hall past the stairs. Can't miss it."

Harry found the bathroom without mishap, relieved himself, and washed his hands, standing on tiptoe to reach the sink. When he was done he peered into the mirror.

He was small and ugly and stupid. Uncle Vernon had told him often enough. The bones in his wrists and elbows were knobbly, and his hair was a filthy mess, and his scar – a souvenir of his good-for-nothing parents' drunk driving – drew attention and disfigured his face.

He was certainly nothing special.

So why did Willow speak to him as if he were?

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When Harry got back to the kitchen the pot of water had started boiling and Willow was adding the ravioli. Ravioli didn't look particularly appetizing, but Harry knew perfectly well he didn't have a right to be picky.

"Hey kiddo," Willow said, putting the broccoli on to steam. "Just a second." She turned down the heat under the ravioli, checked the time, and came to sit across from Harry at the table. "Find everything okay?"

Mostly. "Yes, thank you." Harry paused. "Willow?"

"What's up?"

The ceiling, thought Harry, but instead he said, "Where am I going to sleep?"

There wasn't a cupboard under the stairs; Harry had checked on his way back from the bathroom. There had been a linen closet in the bathroom, but it looked very small, maybe too small to just sit in. Harry wondered if there was a coat closet somewhere by the front door, and worried that he'd have to squeeze in on top of umbrellas and boots.

"You're all set upstairs," Willow said. "I'll take you on the grand tour once we're done with dinner. I'm sorry we didn't do that first, but you seemed hungry."

Harry marveled that Willow was apologizing to him. Uncomfortably, he said, "It's okay. …I don't mind."

Willow quirked that smile and leveled that sweet, searching gaze at Harry again. Then, "Whoops! Dinner's ready. Would you mind setting the table, love? We just need forks and napkins."

_Love_. Numbly, Harry did as Willow asked, fetching forks from a drawer and napkins from the counter. Willow put the food out – large, shallow bowls with the ravioli drenched in a thick red sauce and small deeper bowls with broccoli in them. "Would you like some more milk?"

Harry blinked – he'd had a whole cup, and he was allowed to have more? Aunt Petunia had always been stingy with the water she let Harry drink, even though it was only from the tap. "Yes, please."

Willow brought the milk carton out of the refrigerator, filled both their glasses, and sat down across from Harry with a sigh. "All right! Go ahead, love, dig in."

Doubtfully, Harry picked up his fork and poked at the ravioli. The sauce was thick and smelled delicious – like tomatoes and basil, and some other herbs whose names Harry couldn't remember. Harry shrugged, speared a sauce-covered ravioli with his fork, blew on it a little to cool it, and took a cautious bite.

Oh! Oh, God, it was good. Harry couldn't help the groan of appreciation that escaped his throat. And this whole plate was for him! It boggled the mind. Chewing thoughtfully, Harry decided that ravioli was just cheese wrapped in pasta. How could something so simple be so delicious?

"I take it you like?" Willow said, raising an eyebrow and spearing a ravioli of her own.

"Ifth gut," Harry said before he blushed and remembered to swallow. "I mean, it's good. I've never had ravioli before." Aunt Petunia would probably have frowned at the very idea of food this messy.

Something flickered across Willow's gentle features – surprise? But it was gone, and she shrugged. "Well, I guess that means we'll just have to have this again sometime, won't we?"

Harry smiled and took another bite.

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After dinner, Willow showed Harry around the house: on either side of the front hall, the kitchen and the sitting room; two slightly dusty studies and a "family room" (which was just like the sitting room, except with more bookshelves and a television) at the back; the laundry room hidden behind the door to the basement. After this, Willow seemed to perk up. "Follow me, milord," she said in an atrocious English accent, and swept up the stairs. Harry giggled and followed her, trying not to stare at how _nice_ everything was. The floors were polished honey-colored wood, the carpets plush and vibrantly colored. At home Aunt Petunia had always told Harry how good he had it, but it hadn't been as good as this.

"That's my parents' room," Willow said, gesturing to a closed door at the end of the hall. "It's kinda off-limits. Here's your bathroom—" Harry could only stare. "—and here's my room—" A white room, with a white bed with white sheets and blankets, and white bookshelves and a white desk. Willow sighed. "My mother decorated it. Let's not look too long. This is the guestroom, and _this_ —"

The thick, soft carpet was dark blue. The walls were white, except for a wall-paper border of different kinds of fish above the trim. Beneath the wide, blue-curtained window on the far wall was a twin bed, made up with a zebra-striped blanket and red sheets, and matching pillows. There was a large closet, empty except for clothes-hangers, and next to it a stout wooden dresser with five drawers. There were bookshelves full of books and toys, and a basket of stuffed animals, and a desk with crayons and markers and pencils and paper. And best of all, there was an easel, Harry-sized, next to the desk, with a little stool and a bucket full of brushes and paints.

Hesitantly, Harry took a step into the room. It was the best bedroom he'd ever seen, though to be honest he hadn't seen many. It wasn't too big or too small, just cozy. Harry swallowed. "Wh-whose bedroom is this?"

Willow knelt down next to him, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. "This is your room, Harry." She bit her lip, looking oddly nervous; Harry couldn't imagine why. "Um, I didn't have that much time to get it ready," she said. "I just finished it a couple of days ago. …Do you like it?"

Did he _like_ it? "It's perfect," Harry said, awed. "This is for _me_?"

"That's right."

"Even the easel?"

"The easel and everything."

"Even the _books_?"

"Especially the books!"

"But—" Harry turned to stare at Willow, distressed. "There are so many of them!"

"Well," Willow said, "they're not all new. I, um, kept all of my favorite books from when I was your age, so a lot of these used to be mine. We can read them together, if you like."

Harry had never in his life been so happy to get hand-me-downs. "Nobody's ever read to me before," he said, walking over to peer up at the bookshelves. "There are so _many_."

"Nobody's ever _read_ to you before?" Willow repeated. Harry shook his head.

"I mean, we read in school. But I never had books of my own like this either."

Willow made a funny little choking noise. "Well, now you do. And I'll read to you all the time, if you want me to."

"Thank you, Willow!" And before Harry could lose his nerve, he darted back to Willow, still hovering in the doorway, and hugged her fiercely. She'd stood up again, so all he could really do was wrap his arms around her hips and press his face to her soft stomach, but it felt nice all the same. If hugging was like this all the time, he got why people did it so often. At home, though, Aunt Petunia would squeeze Dudley tight until he squirmed to get away, so Harry had never really minded that he didn't get hugged.

Willow's hands settled on his back and on the top of his head. She ruffled his hair softly, not like she wanted to cut it all off at all. "You're very welcome, Harry." She moved her hands to Harry's arms and he started, realizing he needed to let go. People didn't like to touch him, after all. "Hey now!" Willow said, and knelt again, pulling Harry back to her. "Where are you off to? I just want to get my hug properly."

Hesitant, Harry looked into Willow's bright eyes and put his arms around her neck. Willow wrapped hers around his waist and pulled him close. This hug was even better than the first one. Willow was warm and soft everywhere, and her big hands held him like she didn't want to push him away, and her long silky red hair smelt like flowers. "I like your hair," Harry said into her shoulder, and Willow laughed. The vibrations echoed through Harry's chest.

"Thanks, love," Willow said. "I like your hair, too."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns what night-lights are for; Harry and Willow go on their first outings together.

Willow Rosenberg thought that Harry Potter was just about the best thing since sliced bread.

When she'd carried him home from the airport (to and from the cab, that is, and she'd held him in her lap the whole ride), he'd been light – lighter than she'd thought he'd be – and just the right size for her, curling up against her chest, his sleepy breaths like butterfly kisses against her collarbone. He had little-boy hands, plump with slightly stubby fingers, but his eyes, when they were open, were clever and curious and quick. Willow suspected that if she wasn't careful, she'd have another nerd on her hands.

He was friendly and polite and easy to hug, and his British accent was absolutely off the charts cute-wise, and he looked up at Willow like he wanted her to teach him things. Willow had been prepared for a more ornery child: one frightened from being so far from home, maybe, or willing to misbehave to get attention.

Harry was a little _too_ eager-to-please, though. Willow supposed she might be, too, if she'd been sent off to stay with a complete stranger, but Harry worried her. Little things, like a cup of milk with dinner and books of his own, delighted Harry beyond measure. What kind of family must he have had, if they hadn't given these things to him themselves? Nothing in Harry's file from Social Services had at all suggested that the Dursleys had been poor; in fact, their income had been more than adequate for a family of four with no outstanding debts. Why, then, had Harry come to California with nothing but a duffle bag half-full with hand-me-down clothes and battered books?

Willow sighed and looked over at Harry, who was curled up in the corner on the far side of the couch. They were in the family room watching _The Little Mermaid_ before Harry's bath and bedtime. Willow had unearthed all of her old videos in honor of Harry's arrival, and had left it up to him to pick tonight's entertainment; Harry had confessed he'd never seen any of them.

None.

Not _Lady and the Tramp_ , or _Beauty and the Beast_ , or _The Rescuers_ , or _Mary Poppins_ , or _The Secret of N.I.M.H._ Willow had offered _Cinderella_ and _The Lion King_ and _My Fair Lady_ , but Harry was a stranger to each and every one. He'd never been allowed to watch movies, he'd said. His cousin Dudley had been allowed, but his Aunt Petunia had always said – And there Harry had stopped.

Slapping a smile on over her worried frown, Willow had chosen instead, at Harry's request. _The Little Mermaid_ was an old favorite, not least because the heroine was a misunderstood nerdly redhead with loudmouthed goofballs for best friends. Harry seemed to like it. He was watching the screen with wide eyes and a wider smile, pointing and clapping like a much younger child at the explosions of light and sound, and bopping along cheerfully to the music.

Willow wished that Harry felt comfortable enough to come curl up beside her. She wanted to invite him herself, but worried that he'd only do as he was told because he was told and not because he wanted to. Harry hadn't voiced any complaints today, only constant appreciation and occasionally a query or two. Willow bit her lip in thought.

"Willow?"

The chef was chasing Sebastian around the kitchen with a butcher knife, and Harry was sitting with his hands in his lap, looking up at Willow solemnly.

"What's up, hon?"

"You stopped smiling," Harry said.

"I'm fine," Willow said. Then, a little shyly, and worried that it wasn't entirely the right thing to do, she added, "If you'd like…" and patted the cushion next to her. Harry looked surprised, the same way he had when Willow had offered him milk and when she'd hugged him. "You don't have to!" (In a slightly panicked tone.)

Hesitantly, Harry scooted over the couch to sit close on Willow's left. He tucked his feet up and leant gingerly against Willow's side. He didn't seem uncomfortable, just… scared.

"There you go," Willow said in her softest voice. She felt a sharp chin resting on one of her ribs and looked down to meet Harry's serious, grown-up gaze. "All right?"

"All right," said Harry, and turned back to the movie.

Willow smiled.

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"I liked the ending," Harry told Willow as they went upstairs after the movie was over.

"Oh, yeah?" Willow said. "Me too. Why'd you like it?"

"Everybody was happy," Harry said. "Except Ursula. I wish Ursula and Flotsam and Jetsam could have been happy too."

"You're a good kid, Harry," Willow said. "Me, I just liked the end 'cause of the sparkly dress Ariel gets to wear."

Harry laughed.

"How about you go get a pair of your pajamas, Harry," Willow said, "and I'll start running your bath."

"My bath?" Harry said.

"You've had a long smelly day," Willow said, "although I do admire the fact that you didn't get any marinara sauce on your shirt. So it's bathtime."

Harry looked hesitant. "I had a bath yesterday."

Willow couldn't quite tell why Harry was arguing. The children she'd babysat before simply hadn't liked baths, but that didn't precisely seem to be Harry's problem. Willow would contemplate this later. In the meantime, she had some tried-and-true ways of getting kids to cooperate at bathtime, and there was no reason one of them shouldn't work now.

"Why don't you take your bath," she said, "and I'll put lots of bubbles in, and afterward we can read a couple of stories before we turn out the lights?"

"Bubbles?" Harry repeated, as though he hadn't heard her correctly.

"Yeah, a bubble bath," Willow said. "Do you know what those are?" Cautiously, because a boy who didn't have his own books and wasn't allowed to drink milk or watch Disney movies really might _not_ know what bubble baths were.

"I've never had one," Harry said. "I saw my cousin Dudley's bath once though. It was foamy."

Willow tucked a loop of hair behind her ear and tried to be patient with Harry's unknown relatives. "You can have one of your very own right now, love," she said. "Just go grab some PJs for when you get out of the bath, okay?"

Harry nodded, though he looked a little confused, and did as he was told. Willow sighed and went into the bathroom, crouching down next to the tub so she could fiddle with the taps properly. It was best to let the water run a little hotter than she wanted it, so that the bath wouldn't cool down too quickly. From under the sink she took shampoo and a new bottle of bubble bath. While she shook the bottle and unscrewed the cap, Harry came to stand in the doorway. "Hey," Willow said. "Got your PJs?"

Harry mutely held up a pile of shapeless brown cloth.

"All right. And soon, Harry, we're going to take you shopping for some new clothes." Willow checked the temperature of the bathwater and poured some bubble bath in. She eyed Harry thoughtfully. He still stood awkwardly by the toilet, his hands tucked behind his back. "If you want, I can leave once the bath is full so you can get in on your own," she said, trying to guess the reasons behind Harry's sudden silence. "I'll just come back in when you want me to help wash your hair."

"Okay."

Another quick temperature check, and then: "Harry, what's wrong?"

"I always got clean by myself before," Harry said. "You don't have to stay."

Willow was of the very firm opinion that Harry was too young not to be able to remember having help in the bath. When Willow had been six-and-three-quarters, her bathtimes had been veritable social experiences – not with her parents, of course, but with her nanny and occasionally with Xander. She'd had her Barbies and her boat and her little plastic circus animals and the required rubber ducky, and if Denise hadn't stayed in the bathroom the entire time, she'd checked in very frequently. And Willow had _always_ had help washing her hair.

Willow turned off the water. "Here, sweetie, it's time to get in." When Harry hesitated again, Willow offered, "Are you embarrassed?" One of the kids Willow had babysat for had had a thing about privacy. "I won't look, I promise. I'll just make sure you're okay every couple of minutes, and you call me when you're done and you want to wash your hair."

Harry still looked doubtful, but he gave a faint "okay" as Willow unbent herself from her position on the floor beside the tub.

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Harry was only in the bath for five minutes before he called for help with washing his hair. Willow, who was lounging in Harry's new bedroom, perusing the bookshelves in an attempt to make up her mind about what they could read that night, thought perhaps he'd dropped the soap or something.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up from playing with the bubbles that came up to his shoulders. "I'm done."

"You're done?" Willow tried not to frown. "You don't want to play a little? I might have some of my old bath toys somewhere."

"Play?"

"Yeah! That's the fun of bubble baths," Willow said, wincing at the false cheer in her voice. "I always liked them."

Harry studied the bubbles in front of him with a furrowed brow. "Baths aren't for play." He _must_ have been repeating what someone had once told him.

"And who told you that?" Willow said, kneeling by the bathtub. "'Cause whomever it was, I think they were wrong."

That made Harry look thoughtful. "Wrong?"

Willow decided to just let Harry mull that over. "Yeah. Now how about we wash your hair? Scoot over so I can get to you."

Obediently, Harry moved closer to the front and side of the tub. His arms and shoulders were terribly skinny, and when Harry sat up a little Willow could see his ribs. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. "There you go."

Harry looked up and smiled. At least he had some baby fat in his beautiful face. Willow resolved to feed Harry, and good, every single chance she got. "So here's what we're going to do," she said. "I have here a bowl." She lifted a plastic bowl from the edge of the sink in demonstration. "If you, sir, will close your eyes, I will fill the bowl with water and pour it carefully over your hair so we can get it wet. With me so far?" Harry nodded. "Then I'll suds up your hair and work the shampoo in good, and then we'll rinse it out. All you need to do is keep those eyes closed so you don't get soap in them, all right?" Another nod. "Okay. Lean back for me?"

Willow ruffled Harry's unruly black hair and dipped the bowl into the bathwater. "Here we go. Eyes closed tight!"

When Harry's hair was thoroughly soaked, Willow peeled his sodden bangs away from his forehead and reached for the shampoo. When she turned back, though – "Harry, where did you get that scar?"

Harry squeezed his eyes closed even tighter. "On my head?"

"Yes, this one," Willow said, brushing her thumb over Harry's forehead. The scar was long but clean, shaped exactly like a lightning bolt. It wasn't by any means disfiguring, but it was a terribly big thing for such a little boy to have to carry around. "Goodness."

"It's from when my parents died," Harry said matter-of-factly. "We were in a car crash. They were killed, but I just got the scar."

It was eerie to hear a child speak so plainly of any death, let alone his parents'. Willow peered at the scar. It certainly didn't look like the kind of cut one could get in a car accident, but Willow kept this thought to herself. "You poor thing," she said instead. And just to make sure, "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

"No," Harry said, sounding a little bewildered. What else could he have expected Willow to say?

"You don't need to keep it covered up if you don't want," Willow said, tilting the shampoo bottle over Harry's head. "Eyes closed! Your scar isn't ugly at all, you know, just… unusual. You've got such a sweet face, you don't need to hide everything just because of a scar."

"That's not what Aunt Petunia says!" Harry burst out, but nothing Willow said could convince him to say more.

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Late that night, long after she'd put Harry to bed and after she'd gone to bed herself, Willow was roused from a restless doze by a noise.

At first she couldn't think what it was; she'd been alone in this house at night for years. Willow lay still and stared up at the ceiling, trying to pinpoint the noise and where it had come from. A whimper, a sniffle, both close by.

It took a moment to click. Harry!

Willow threw off her covers and fell out of bed, banging her knee painfully against the floor. With a muffled curse she was up again and stumbling towards her bedroom door, visions of Harry awake and alone in the dark for hours haunting her. The air conditioning coming up from the vents in the floor blew across her bare feet and made her shiver.

"Harry, honey?" Willow called softly as she reached the second bedroom. "Are you awake?"

Rubbing her bruised knee with her hand, Willow peered into Harry's room, squinting in the dim light from the bathroom down the hall. The small cozy room looked eerie this late at night – the child-sized easel loomed both tall and crooked, the space underneath the desk was utterly black, and the bookshelves were teeming with shadows. "Harry?"

Another sniffle and a little cough, and then the lump under the blankets stirred. "W-Willow?"

"Hey," Willow said, crossing the room. She knelt by Harry's bed. "You okay, love? I thought I heard something."

There was some more under-cover movement, and then one of Harry's small hands pulled the blankets away from his face. He was frightened, the poor thing, and had obviously been crying. "Hi," Harry said.

"Hi," Willow said.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," Harry whispered.

"Oh, no," Willow began to say, and reached out to touch Harry's face.

He immediately scooted backward. "I'm sorry! I tried to be quiet."

"It's okay," Willow said, withdrawing her hand. Was Harry expecting to be hit? Willow immediately pushed that thought to the back of her mind to be mulled over later, because if she considered it now she might cry, and this was definitely not the time for her to have hysterics. "It's okay, sweetie." Take a deep breath, Willow. "I'm not gonna hurt you. It's okay."

Harry's wide eyes didn't look distrustful so much as simply disbelieving. "Sorry," he whispered again, sounding helpless.

"The last thing I want is to scare you," Willow said. "All I want is to make sure you're okay." She waited for Harry's hesitant nod and then added, "Can I give you a hug? Is that all right?" Another tiny nod. Slowly, Willow reached out again. Harry didn't move away this time, but he squeezed his eyes shut as though bracing himself for something. As gently as she could, Willow stroked a thick lock of black hair away from Harry's face. "It's okay. I've got you." Another stroke and a pass of her thumb over Harry's cheek. "You're okay."

After a few minutes of being petted while Willow murmured reassurances, Harry started to relax a little. His fingers loosened their death-grip on his blanket and he opened his eyes cautiously, eventually finding Willow's steady gaze in the dark.

"I'm gonna give you that hug now, okay?" Willow whispered.

"Okay," Harry whispered back.

Willow leaned against the bed, staying as even with Harry as she could, and slid an arm around him to rub circles on his poor bony back. "I've got you." A squeeze so gentle it almost wasn't there and a kiss to the tip of Harry's nose. "I've got you." Harry let loose a deep, shuddering breath and moved forward again, close enough to curl up in the curve of Willow's arm. "We're okay."

"Sorry," Harry said again, into her neck.

"Oh, Harry." Willow sighed. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, sweetie."

"Big boys don't cry," he said stubbornly.

Willow concentrated on keeping her touch gentle, but inside she was ready to scream. What kind of people had these Dursleys been, to have raised a child to be more afraid of his guardians than he was of his own nightmares? Who taught little boys not to reach out when they were frightened? How could she make her own scared, proud little boy understand that he had nothing to fear, nor anything to be ashamed of?

"It's all right for big boys to cry when they really need to," Willow began hesitantly. "Everybody's got to cry sometime."

"'S not what Uncle Vernon says," Harry said.

"Well not even Uncle Vernon could have been right all the time," Willow said.

Harry made a startled sound.

"Look, Harry," Willow said, rolling her words over her in her mind deliberately, "I'm taking care of you now, right? We don't have to do what your aunt and uncle would think we ought to, because it's up to us now. We'll figure out what's best for you together. And I need you to know that if you're ever scared or hurt, the first thing you should do is yell for me, okay?"

"You want me to yell?" Harry said. He sounded as if he thought he'd heard her wrong.

"I want you to yell," Willow said. "That's one of the things I'm here for – to come as quickly as I can when you need me." She paused. Harry shifted a little closer, and Willow took the opportunity to pull the blankets up around his thin shoulders. "You shouldn't have to be all alone in the dark, love. If you have a bad dream, or if you wake up and get scared, you can yell for me and I'll come. Or you can come to my room and get in bed with me. I won't be mad, okay? I promise. I won't yell at you, or… or hit you." Harry shuddered at this. "I'll be happy to see you. That's what I want. I want to be as good to you as I possibly can. Tell me you'll try and let me be good to you?" Harry nodded slowly. "Oh, honey. That's good."

Willow wanted to tell Harry, very badly, about all the other things he shouldn't be afraid to ask or to do, and everything she wanted to give him and to help him with, but it was too late – or early – to get so complicated. She'd tell him everything eventually, a little bit at a time so he would _understand_.

"Oh, I should have remembered!" Willow exclaimed suddenly as she combed her fingers through Harry's uncontrollable hair. "You've got a night-light! That might help a little. Here, hon, let go for just a second and I'll turn it on for you." Harry loosed his grip on Willow's sleeve and let her unwrap her arms from around his shoulders. The night-light was plugged in a few feet away from the bed; Willow crawled to it and turned it on.

The night-light was a plastic sphere tinted with a faint blue. It cast a steady light over Harry's bed, overtaking the shadows on the shelves nearby and chasing away the darkness lurking around the desk and dresser. "Is that any better?" Willow asked. She sat lightly next to Harry, touching his cheek affectionately. Harry let her and, when she stopped, scooted to her side and hopefully rested his tousled head in her lap. Willow smiled.

"It's not so big anymore," Harry observed after a moment. He sounded relieved.

"What's not so big?"

"The – _my_ room. In the dark it was really big and I could see lots of places for things to hide."

"What kind of things, Harry?"

Harry looked away. "Monsters and things."

"Hey, it's all right. We've started to take care of them, haven't we? Monsters don't like to come after boys who have family to help them, so you're not very appetizing monster-food, are you?" Willow asked in her most cheerful voice.

This perked Harry up a little. "Because I've got you?"

He sounded so _hesitant_ when he said it! Willow promised herself that one day, she'd get little Harry Potter to take her for granted. "Because you've got me. And the rest of the monsters who are nervy enough to come after the two of us, well, that's what your night-light is for."

"Nowhere for them to hide now!" Harry said.

"Nowhere at all," agreed Willow. She started petting Harry's impossible hair again, combing it back away from the scar on his forehead. Harry gazed up at her with affection and offered a shy smile. Willow smiled back and had to remind herself, again, not to indulge in hysterics. Harry was the sweetest boy in the world with the sweetest little smile, so trusting despite his relatives' attempts to squash the sweet right out of him. How could anybody not see what Willow saw? How could anybody not fall in love with Harry Potter?

This was too distressing to keep thinking about. "Hey, honey. Do you think you could try to sleep?"

Harry nodded.

"Is it all right if I keep you company til you fall asleep? Just in case you get scared again?"

Another, more eager, nod. Harry was a very expressive nodder.

"Okay. Here, let me tuck you in again. Would you like a teddy bear to hold on to, or something?" When Harry hesitated, Willow added, "I still sleep with my old favorite bear, you know. He's very comforting. You can have him, if you want. I think he'd like you." Pause. "Should I go get him for you?"

"Yes, please."

"All right. I'll be right back."

Big Bear was a large, formerly white teddy bear that Willow had had since she was three. She'd stopped appreciating exactly how big he was since she'd started growing up, but she was reminded of the reason for his name when she handed him to Harry and it was readily apparent that he and Harry were almost the same size.

Harry threw a skinny arm around Big Bear's potbelly and smiled. "He's soft," he said.

"His name is Big Bear," Willow said. "He's always been very good company. Monsters don't like him much."

"Thank you, Willow."

He was a seven-year-old boy with a terrible childhood, woken up with nightmares in the middle of the night in a strange new place, and still he remembered his manners. Willow beamed. "You're very welcome, Harry. Now, curl up with Big Bear, and we'll get you back to sleep, okay? And you'll have better dreams this time."

"Okay."

"What usually helps you sleep? It's a little late for a story, but I could try a song."

Willow should have predicted the words before Harry said them. "I've never had a bedtime song." The look on his face said he doubted the effectiveness of such a thing.

"We could give it a try," Willow said. "Songs might turn out to be just right. Let me think for a second."

Harry was too grown-up for the standard songs like "All the Pretty Little Horses" and "Hush Little Baby". Willow contemplated some of the quieter pop songs she knew but thought Harry might find them boring; most of the folk songs she knew weren't quite right either.

Then— "Oh! I've got it." Willow tilted her head at Harry, who blinked up at her sleepily from where he rested Big Bear's plump stomach. "Here you go:

There was a boy -- a very strange, enchanted boy.  
They say he wandered very far, very far, over land and sea;  
A little shy and sad of eye, but very wise was he.  
And then one day, one magic day, he passed my way,  
And as we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me:  
'The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.' "

Willow sang it twice, soft and slow, in her rough low voice. She'd never win any awards, but she did well enough with what she had.

Harry certainly seemed to think so. He was fast asleep halfway through the second time.

Willow regarded her little boy fondly for a while, and then unfolded herself from her seat on the floor next to Harry's bed and returned to her own room, lost in thought.

It took her a long time to get to sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds a way to say 'thank you'. And possibly those outings you've all been waiting for.

When Harry woke up the next morning, dim light was streaking through the shafts of the blinds on his window and falling over his new red blanket. Harry had never slept anywhere with a window like this by his bed before; at home, he'd hardly gotten any light from the hallway in his cupboard, and even at the orphanage the windows in the dormitory had been high up on the wall, remote, and very dirty. He knew what blinds were, though. He'd cleaned all of them in 4 Privet Drive twice a week for Aunt Petunia. Now he blinked the sleep from his eyes, released his stranglehold on Big Bear, and pulled the string that controlled the blinds. They folded up the window just as they should and the sunlight swept into the room, claiming every corner.

Harry peered out over the windowsill. All he'd seen of California so far was the sky above the tarmac at the airport – he'd fallen asleep there and Willow had brought him here. He thought vaguely of palm trees, but didn't know exactly what they looked like.

The yard below his bedroom window didn't differ in any significant way from the ones back in England, so far as Harry could tell. There was green grass and brown dirt and white metal patio furniture. The trees had leaves, and the ivy draped over the trellis alongside the house looked like ivy ought. There were squirrels and birds. The clouds in the sky were shaped like clouds.

Before his disappointment became too acute, Harry remembered something California had that England did not: Willow.

She had been incredibly kind to him yesterday and last night. Once, when Harry had been sick at school and had slept in the infirmary, the nurse had felt his forehead and been kind to him; and yesterday Ashlee, a stewardess on Harry's airplane, had brought Harry juice and a book and an extra blanket. Neither of them compared to Willow, though, and all of the other adults Harry knew weren't like that at all. Some of them had smiled at him and patted him on the head after the Dursleys had died and he'd been shunted from hospital to Social Services to the orphanage, but they hadn't meant it. Harry could tell.

Willow meant it.

Last night, Harry had woken up and been afraid. He hadn't been able to remember where he was, and he'd just had a horrible dream full of green light and screaming, and there were shadows _everywhere_. He hadn't been able not to cry, just a little bit, and Willow had heard him almost right away. At home, when Harry had woken Aunt Petunia up, she'd told him to stop being a nuisance and a baby and to let decent folk sleep. When he'd woken Uncle Vernon up, Harry had been told to shut his face or Vernon would shut it for him.

Harry had also heard Aunt Petunia comfort Dudley when he woke up shrieking for toys or sweets. Harry had disliked the noise she made but wanted something like that for himself all the same. Willow had done it, but better. She'd been calm, not panicky like Aunt Petunia, and soft and quiet. She'd sat right here next to him and hugged him and tucked him in and given him her teddy bear and sung to him.

Too many good things were happening. Harry had _never_ had so many good things at once at home.

Soft footsteps padded down the corridor and paused at Harry's bedroom door. "Harry, honey?" Willow said, not loudly. "Are you up?" Three knocks on the door, and then a click as the doorknob turned and Willow peered into the room. "Rise and shine!"

The moment Willow's calm gaze met Harry's she smiled. Utterly helpless, Harry smiled back. "Hi," he said.

"Hey," Willow said, stepping inside. She was dressed already, in pink denim shorts and a blue shirt that didn't suit her at all. Her damp red hair was tossed over one slender shoulder. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of Harry's bed, close enough that he could see that her arms and her long pale legs were freckled. "It's almost ten – I thought you might like some breakfast." Harry nodded dumbly. "Okay. Would you like to come down to the kitchen with me, see what we can scare up?"

Harry nodded again and sat up, knocking Big Bear to the floor. He tensed, but Willow didn't seem to mind. Instead of calling him clumsy and careless, she picked Big Bear up by one arm and settled him on Harry's other side, by the wall. "Did Big Bear work out all right for you last night? Any more bad dreams?" Harry shook his head. "Oh, good. I'm glad. C'mon, sweetie, let's get you fed."

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For breakfast Harry had sweet, pulpy orange juice in a plastic cup; an egg scrambled with cottage cheese and a little cream; a slice of whole wheat toast, liberally buttered; a bowl of crunchy cold cereal drowned in fresh cold milk; and strawberries. It was the most pleasant meal he'd ever had, even better than last night's dinner. Willow had turned off the air conditioning and opened the windows, flooding the kitchen with sunlight and fresh air. The radio played quietly. Willow sat across the table and squinted at the tiny print of the local newspaper. She was eating eggs, too, spooning them on top of her bagel and cream cheese. Occasionally she sipped from a mug that was more milk than coffee.

At home Aunt Petunia would have woken Harry at six-thirty so that he would have breakfast ready by the time Dudley and Uncle Vernon came downstairs. Dudley's breakfasts had always been enormous; Harry was typically given a dry slice of bread, though on the days Aunt Petunia was in a good mood she'd let him toast it. Harry had never had a breakfast like this before, and he was surprised at how much he was able to eat.

Willow looked up halfway through her bagel. "So, kiddo," she said, "what would you like to do today?"

Harry had no idea how to answer such a question. "I dunno," he said hesitantly. "What do _you_ want to do?"

"Well," Willow said, quirking an eyebrow at him, "I thought maybe we could walk into town, let you look around. If the weather stays fine we could go to a playground, if you want, and if it doesn't, we could swing by the public library and get you a card. On our way home I'd like to stop by the supermarket so you can pick out some things you'd like to eat. We can call a car to take us home if we're too tired to walk back. How's that sound?"

It sounded like fun. On the few occasions Aunt Petunia had taken Harry on an outing, he'd had to trail along behind her, carrying her shopping bags. They certainly never went to a playground – frivolities like that weren't for freaks like him, after all. "But those are all kid things to do," said Harry. "Don't you want to do some grown-up things?"

"Oh, honey, I'm not a grown-up," Willow said, amused. "And a nice relaxed day out sounds like fun to me. The only boring errand I want to do can wait a day or two."

Harry tilted his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "What's your grown-up errand?" Uncle Vernon would have told Harry off for being too nosy for his own good, but Willow seemed to like it when he asked questions.

"My grown-up errand…" Willow began, and hesitated. "Harry… I noticed that most of your clothing is pretty worn-out," she said delicately. "If you'd like, I can take you to get some new clothes and shoes and stuff. Sunnydale's got a pretty decent mall – we could start there."

Harry stared. "You want to buy me new clothes?"

Willow blushed. "Well, yes. New everything, really; you didn't bring much with you."

Harry ignored this last; he'd brought everything he owned. "But you don't need to buy me _new_ clothes," he said. "We could buy them at Goodwill or something."

"Is that where your Aunt Petunia bought you clothes, Harry?" Willow asked softly.

"Only sometimes," said Harry. "My cousin Dudley's old clothes fit me just fine." He'd heard that a lot over the years.

"And did your Aunt Petunia buy your cousin clothes from Goodwill?" Willow asked.

"No," said Harry. "Dudley needed new clothes."

"Hm," said Willow noncommittally. "Harry, let me ask you something. And I want you to answer honestly, okay? Say what you think, not what you think I want to hear. Can you do that for me?" Harry nodded, not a little apprehensive. "All right," Willow said. "Harry, would you _rather_ have clothes from Goodwill? Or do you want some new things?"

Oh. Harry looked down ashamedly, feeling his face heat. Aunt Petunia had called Harry greedy when he asked for things, so eventually he'd learned not to ask. And anyway, he should know by now that nice new clothes were for good boys, not for freeloading orphans who forgot who their betters were. But…Oh, to be like other boys, with shoes that fit and pants that didn't fall down and shirts without holes in them –

_Say what you think, not what you think I want to hear._

Nearly whispering, hardly believing he dared, Harry said, "I want some new things."

Movement at his side made him jump in his seat, but then a large, gentle hand was on his shoulder and Willow was next to him. "Hey, love," she said, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "You did good. Remember what I said last night, that I want to help you when you need it?" Nod. "Well, this is like that, okay? I can't always know what you want, so I need you to tell me."

"But what if I want something bad?" Harry asked.

"Then I'll say no," Willow said. Harry could hear her smile. "But that's all. Don't worry, sweetie. We'll work it out."

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Before they left the house, Willow pinned a small piece of paper with her address and phone number to the inside of Harry's pants pocket. "Just in case," she said with a wink. Then she took his hand and led him outside.

6305 Westminster Place was lovely. A dignified grey with white trim, it had a large sturdy porch along the front and right side, and a cobblestone walk to the street down the center of its expansive green lawn. It looked very, very big, and all the other houses nearby did, too. It reminded Harry of some of the neighborhoods Aunt Petunia had had to drive through to take Harry and Dudley to school.

Before he lost his nerve, Harry asked, "Willow? Are you rich?"

Willow laughed. "What a question!" she said, not unkindly. "And – no, I don't think we are, exactly. There are people in this town with much, much more money than we have; they're _definitely_ rich. I think the politically correct term for what we are is 'upper middle-class'." Harry didn't know what 'politically correct' meant, but he thought he understood the rest. "What that means, Harry," Willow continued, "is that we don't have to worry. We can't buy a private airplane, but we can have a nice house and a nice car." (Said car was parked in the drive on the left side of the house.) "And some nice clothes. …Shall we?"

They did.

The walk into town was short, and as there wasn't all that much town to see, the tour was brief. They stopped at the public library, where Harry painstakingly filled out a form that got him his very own library card. Then Willow called for a cab at a payphone, and while they waited she bought a cup of fresh lemonade and a giant cookie, which they shared, at a nearby café.

At the mall, Willow steered Harry straight into a bright, crowded clothing store. When a salesgirl asked them what they were looking for, Willow grinned toothily and said, "Everything."

Harry was a little worried, because whenever Aunt Petunia had bought herself clothes she'd try on everything – _everything_ – first. Harry thought it was entirely tedious, and it took ages and ages. At this store, though, Harry and Willow were taken to a large dressing-room just for them. There the salesgirl briskly measured Harry up, down and sideways, nodded, and trotted off. She came back with nondescript jeans and a shirt, "Just to check the size," and trotted off again. This time she was gone for much longer, and she came back with a huge pile of clothes.

"Since we know your size, Harry, you won't have to try these on if you don't want," said Willow. "Just pick out what you like."

They started with T-shirts – sleeveless, short-sleeved, and long-sleeved – and continued on through polo shirts, dress shirts, jackets, sweatshirts and sweaters. Harry picked the colors he liked, and got to nix the ones he didn't. There were shirts with stripes. There were shirts with pockets. There were shirts with cartoon characters and superheroes. Willow and Harry looked at them all.

…And then they kept going. Shorts, jeans, cargo pants, khaki pants, dress slacks, swimsuits, sweatpants. Pajamas of all kinds, in matching sets. Bathrobes. Socks. Underwear. Belts and ties. Sandals and dress shoes and bright yellow rubber rain-boots and sneakers that lit up when he walked. Slippers and flip-flops and water shoes.

Harry only tried a few things on, but it still took upwards of three hours, including their break for lunch (they had pizza). A Spider-Man backpack and a digital watch later, all of Harry's new things were bagged and stacked in a shopping cart.

"Tired?" said Willow. "Me too." She called another cab. Harry fell asleep in her lap on the ride home.

Instead of unpacking immediately, Willow left all of the bags in the foyer and called Harry into the kitchen. They took a snack break slouched comfortably on the couch in the den, drinking apple juice and eating slices of red pepper and cheddar cheese.

"So," said Willow, "did you have an okay time? Not too boring?"

"I had a great time!" Harry said, snuggling against Willow's side. "And thank you very much for all of the nice things."

"You've thanked me already," Willow said. "And you're very welcome. I'm glad it was a good day."

"It was the best day ever," said Harry.

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Harry had always liked to paint.

He'd been very good at it, in the art classes in school at home. His teachers had told him he was talented, and he'd won prizes. When he'd brought them home, though, Aunt Petunia had thrown them in the trash. Not even the kitchen trash – she'd gone to the side door and put them directly into the garbage cans outside.

But now, Harry had his own easel, with lots of paper and pencils for sketching, and paints in a million colors, and a palette and brushes, too. Willow had told him specifically that all of the art supplies were just for him. There were crayons and markers also, arranged neatly in the drawers of Harry's very own desk. Harry had been itching to use everything, especially the paints, since Willow had first shown them to him last night. Now, after his long wonderful first day in Sunnydale, Harry finally had his chance.

Once Harry had painted a picture for Aunt Petunia. It had been at the beginning of the school year, just after he'd turned five. It was a picture of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and Dudley all holding hands in front of 4 Privet Drive. It wasn't exactly one of his best efforts – he'd only been five, after all – but he'd tried. It was a thank-you, for feeding and clothing and housing Harry for four years. Harry knew exactly how long he'd been imposing on the Dursleys' hospitality; they reminded him every day. That picture had gone directly into the bin like all the others.

Harry could only hope that Willow would receive such a present a little more open-mindedly.

The painting was going to be of Willow, of course, and it was to thank her for everything: for the bedroom, for the easel, for the clothes, for the milk – for taking Harry in at all. It wasn't much, and Aunt Petunia had always let Harry know that a silly picture couldn't possibly reimburse the Dursleys for all they'd done for him, but there wasn't very much else Harry could do.

Frowning, Harry wiggled a little on his Harry-sized stool in front of his easel, pulling at the neat collar of one of his new white T-shirts. Harry took out the palette first; he'd have to mix some colors carefully to make something like the color of Willow's hair.

Red was first, of course. It was the most obvious. But Harry but a little bit of yellow to the side for later, just in case, and brought out the brown and gold, too. The gold even had sparkles in it. Harry grinned.

He didn't need to sketch anything beforehand. When Willow worried over his scar, frowned at the newspaper over breakfast, split a cookie with him in town, Harry had memorized her face. He didn't want to forget what Willow had been like once she was gone – for of course this couldn't last. Sooner or later someone would realize Harry didn't belong here and would move him. If he were lucky he'd go back to the orphanage he'd stayed at after the Dursleys had died. If not…he didn't know what.

Shrugging this melancholy thought away, Harry picked up his brush and let it lead him.

Willow's skin: very smooth and very pale, except for the slight tan on her forearms and the faint freckles on her nose. Willow's eyes: not green and not brown but a shot of both, wide-set and thick-lashed, brows arched, looking at Harry like he was something special. Her chin, her nose, her cheekbones. Her tall thin body in those awful pink shorts and blue T-shirt. Her hands, a little too big for her, strong and capable but uncallused, one braced on a slender hip and one outstretched. Her smile, quirky, toothy and crooked to one side.

And her hair.

Harry had mixed the color first but saved the actual painting for last. He put down the red-brown first, filling in the space around her face. Some tossed back, some draped over her shoulder, like that. It fell almost to her elbows in a single glossy sheet. Harry bit his lip and tucked a tendril of hair behind one of Willow's ears, reminding himself to add earrings, the little gold ones, later.

Next a little bit of yellow, just enough to tint and to show where the shadows were, and then a ripple of gold, just there, where the light would fall. Harry dipped his brush in water to blur the color a little. Then he took some more brown and darkened the sides of Willow's part just enough to show it wasn't straight but off to the side. Yes.

Harry loved Willow's hair. It was soft and it smelled nice and Harry could rest his cheek against it when Willow hugged him. And last night, after Harry had admired it aloud, Willow had said, "Yes, it's a lot like your mom's was, isn't it?" She'd given him a sad smile, and she'd sounded like she thought Harry ought to know this already. He hadn't quite had the courage to correct her. Aunt Petunia hadn't kept any pictures of Harry's parents, and would hardly speak Lily's name, let alone Harry's father's. Harry had no idea what his mother had looked like, but he was comforted by the idea that she might have looked a little like Willow.

A touch of red – just a touch! – to her eyebrows, of brown to her lashes, and then Harry put the brush down.

Blinking, he stood, and took a few steps back to look at his easel. Was he done? How long had he been painting for? A glance to the neon numbers of the digital alarm clock by his bedside confirmed that it had been just over two hours. Harry pushed his bangs out of his face with paint-sticky fingers and squinted. His picture wasn't, by any means, perfect. But it was nice, and maybe Willow would like it. Harry hoped she wouldn't throw it out.

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Harry trotted down the hall to the bathroom, peeking down the stairs as he went. There was a soft light coming from the sitting room off the front hall. Probably Willow was curled up in her armchair, reading. Harry would just wait for the paint to dry before bringing Willow her picture. He was glad to give her some time alone, anyway; Aunt Petunia had always said how glad she was to get him out of her sight when she had sent him outside or into his cupboard. Harry was happy to make himself scarce before Willow had to ask it of him.

After washing all of the paint out from under his fingernails, Harry chanced a look in the mirror and for a moment could not move a muscle. The new T-shirt – the new _white_ T-shirt that Willow had bought just for him – was covered in paint.

There was red staining the hem at his hips. There was gold on his left sleeve and green on his shoulder. There were splatters of pink across his chest and blue at his collar.

Harry himself had green and red in his hair and gold on his face. _That_ was easy enough to deal with. But what would he do about the shirt?

Aunt Petunia had been so angry whenever Harry had made Dudley's hand-me-downs messy. Stains showed frivolity and a vile disrespect for how much the Dursleys had done for him by taking him in and feeding him and giving him clothes to wear. He was a dirty little freak and a clumsy little beggar and all he ever did was give Aunt Petunia more work to do (for though she'd given Harry a great many chores, she'd never trusted him with the laundry). It didn't matter whether the stains were from paint in art class or grass from getting pushed down in the schoolyard or oil from his miserable attempts at cooking; they were all proof of his being a useless burden. He was usually sent straight to the cupboard. That he would miss the next meal or two was a given.

Being here with Willow was so disorienting. All of the rules were completely different if there were any at all. Willow had given him an easel and new clothes and as much as he wanted to eat every day. She'd taken him to get his own library card, and they were to go to the playground, for as long as Harry liked, tomorrow.

Willow never reacted like Harry expected her to. She always smiled at him as if she were pleased to see him. When she didn't call him by name, it was never 'freak' or 'boy'; it was 'honey' or 'love' or 'sweetheart'. Harry had been confused enough when he hadn't done anything really reprehensible, but what would Willow do when she found out how bad he'd been? Was there a closet somewhere in the house that Harry would be able to fit into? Would Willow just yell, or would she slap him like Aunt Petunia had? Would she send him away?

For the umpteenth time Harry hoped that if he were sent away, Willow would send him back to the orphanage he'd stayed at in London. He didn't think there was anywhere else in the world he could go.

Maybe he could get the stains out on his own. Doubtfully, Harry folded some sheets of toilet paper and wet them in the sink. He dabbed with this at the paint. All the water did was make it spread.

Harry bit back a cry of dismay and tried to think. He didn't know the first thing about laundry. What had Aunt Petunia done to get stains out of everyone's clothing? Was there special soap? Were you supposed to use hot water? Did you hope the stain dried so you could pick it off?

The laundry room was just off the kitchen on the way down the stairs to the basement. Would there be something there? There was a special deep sink just for laundry, and a clothesline.

Perhaps Willow didn't have any special soap in her house. Harry couldn't imagine Willow _ever_ needing to get rid of a stain.

It was worth a try, at least. Biting his lip and clutching at the hem of his shirt, Harry made his way downstairs, freezing in place whenever he thought he heard a floorboard creak. He peeked into the living room on the way to the laundry. Willow was curled up in her chair, asleep, with her book splayed across her lap and her reading glasses slipping down her nose. That was good, at least; maybe she wouldn't hear anything.

The laundry was small and white and warm, though the tile floor was cold on Harry's bare feet. Here was the washing machine and here was the dryer. The sink was in the corner. All of the detergents were on a shelf high above Harry's head. Harry doubted that there was any way for him to reach them; he would have climbed up on the washer or dryer, but both machines were taller than he was.

Harry hesitated and then pulled his shirt over his head. His best bet was the sink, and he had to stand on his tiptoes, his chest pressed to the cold porcelain, to see into it or to reach the faucet.

Cold water? Hot? When Harry had done the dishes for Aunt Petunia, she'd made him use water so hot it scalded his hands. It hurt, but it also worked. Hopefully, Harry stretched his arm across the sink and twisted the hot water on. The faucet screeched halfway around; Harry yelped and jumped back.

"Harry?"

He'd woken Willow.

She was at the laundry door before Harry could even turn off the water. "What are you doing? Is something wrong?"

"I'm sorry!" Harry whispered, backing against the wall. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

"Hey," Willow said. She looked worried. "Hey, it's okay. I'm just going to turn off the water, all right? And now I'm just kneeling down so I can look at you. Can you tell me what's wrong, honey?"

Utterly resigned to his fate, Harry held out the paint-stained T-shirt. Willow gently pried his fingers loose from the fabric, shook the shirt out, and held it up. "Oh, is that all?" She sounded relieved. "Look, it's just paint. That should come out no problem. It's no big. Harry, can you – can you look at me?" Harry tried, but he was too ashamed to lift his eyes to hers. Listlessly, he shook his head. "Oh, honey. Just – come here, please? Ssh, no, I just want to give you a hug, okay? I promise it'll be all right. I'm not mad. I won't h-hurt you."

Somehow Harry managed to look up this time. Willow was smiling, but her lips trembled a little. She looked like she was about to cry. "I'm not mad," she said again. "It's just _paint_ , love." Harry collapsed into Willow's open arms, burying his face in her shoulder. "We had such a good time today," she was saying, as she rubbed his bare back. "I like you very, very much, Harry. I think we can be good friends. Don't you think so?" Weakly, Harry nodded. "And friends don't hurt each other, right? And friends forgive each other…

"Harry, you're bound to make mistakes sometimes, or to disobey – everyone does, even grown-ups. Most mistakes don't even matter, and for the ones that do… there is no mistake you could make that would make me hurt you. All right? And if anyone does hurt you, they are _wrong_ , Harry. They're wrong – it doesn't matter _what_ you've done. Your aunt and uncle were wrong to ever hurt you or make you afraid." Keeping one arm wrapped firmly around Harry's waist, Willow cupped his chin with the other, gently turning his face up to meet her gaze. "Please tell me you hear me."

Harry blinked the tears from his eyelashes. "I hear you."

Willow stroked her thumb along his chin. "Do you believe me?"

Uncertain, Harry shrugged.

"Oh." Willow sighed and closed her eyes for a long moment. "Do you – Could you think about it, a little?" Harry nodded. "Good," Willow said. "That's good, sweetheart." She bent her head and pressed her warm smooth cheek to his. Harry pressed back, and clutched at her more tightly.

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After a quiet but not uncomfortable dinner, Willow said, "So – do I get to see what you were painting?"

Harry, swallowing nervously, nodded.

"How about we take care of these dishes, and then we'll get you ready for bed, and you can show me what you made?"

Dinner had been simple – canned turkey-barley soup, heated up on the stove – and the dishes were done in short order with Willow washing and Harry drying. His heart pounding in his throat, Harry led the way upstairs and into his bedroom. Carefully he picked the painting up from where he'd laid it on his desk to dry. "I – I did it – It's for you," he stuttered.

Willow accepted the painting with a smile. "That's so sweet, Harry. Oh!" One hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Is this…This is me!" she exclaimed.

"I wanted to paint you," Harry said.

" _Harry_ ," Willow said breathlessly. "It's wonderful. Goodness, you're talented! It's…" She trailed off, shaking her head. Her eyes were bright.

"Do you like it?"

"Do I _like_ it? I love it, Harry. Thank you."

Harry, grinning helplessly, felt his cheeks heat. He barely managed a whispered "You're welcome."


End file.
